Flowers Are to Remember the Dead
by memoire
Summary: Percy, now an old man, relates his adventures and stories about World War I to his great-grandchildren. AU, one-shot.


**Happy Veterans Day everybody. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Percy Jackson or the poem "Flanders's Fields."**

* * *

"Grandpa! Grandpa!" A young boy of seven ran up to his grandfather with red flowers in his hands. He had black hair and brilliant sea-green eyes. Trailing behind him was a younger girl who looked exactly like the boy, but her hair was longer and tied into a pony tail.

"Look what I did at school grandpa! Look!" The boy held the flowers up to the old man who gratefully took them from the small hands. "Aren't they pretty?"

The girl sniffed in exasperation and folded her arms, making her seem much older than she really was. "They're just flowers Harry. Particularly poppies if you want to get specific. Today's Veterans Day after all."

The boy, Harry, rolled his eyes. "Whatever Emma, anyway don't you like them grandpa? I planted them myself." Unbeknownst to Harry, his sister stuck her tongue at him.

The old man took in a deep breath into the sweet smell of the poppies, his green eyes twinkling in delight. "Ah, thank you Harry for bringing me them." He ruffled the boy's head.

_In Flanders fields the poppies blow  
Between the crosses, row by row,  
That mark our place; and in the sky  
The larks, still bravely singing, fly  
Scarce heard among the guns below. _

"Hey!" Emma interjected. She was feeling a tad bit ignored and wanted to impress her grandfather too. "What about me?"

Her grandpa laughed and pulled both children into his lap who were glaring daggers at each other. Even at his grand old age of nearly a hundred, he could still pick up two small children easily. "Since it's – oh what is it? November 11th? – let me tell you a story. I think you kids will enjoy it."

"What is it grandpa?" They asked in unison. Their fighting stopped and both children looked at their grandpa with eager eyes. If Harry and Emma could agree with one thing, it was that grandpa's stories were the best and they always stopped what they were doing and listened to him.

The old man rubbed his chin. "Hmm… have your parents ever talked to you about the Great War?"

"Yes," Emma answered.

"No," Harry answered.

Emma rolled her eyes at her brother for what seemed the umpteenth time that day. "The Great War is the same as World War I Harry. Remember dad telling us about that?"

"Oh…yeah!" His head snapped back in realization and gave a wide toothed smile. "I remember! It was the war where a lot of people died wasn't it?"

His grandpa nodded in agreement. "Indeed it was Harry. It was a mess to simply put it. The alliance system was complicated, lands were destroyed… Europe was in complete chaos."

"Did you fight in it?" Emma asked.

"Yes. I still have vivid memories of that faithful day when I first step foot into France. It was the year 1917 and America had just joined the war… Hand me that book on the table would you Harry? I would like to show you guys something."

_We are the dead. Short days ago  
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,  
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie  
In Flanders fields._

The boy nodded and went towards the table, the one that grandpa likes to sit at and drink his blue soda and handed him the book. It was very heavy and some pages were falling out already. The pages were worn from decades of uses, as if someone repeatedly flipped the pages back and forth.

His grandpa put the poppies aside and put the book on the coffee table. His great-grandchildren sat next to him, looking at the book with interest.

The pages were filled with black and white photographs with neat handwriting next to them, well mostly neat. There were a few instances where the neat handwriting was replaced with messy scribbles. He turned to a page where several men were smiling and holding cups in what seemed to be a ditch. They were dressed in military clothes.

Emma pointed at the man in the middle. "Is this you grandpa? You look really young!"

The old man laughed. "Yes, yes it is. I was 20 years old when that picture was taken. It's hard to believe that a person as old as me looked that young at one point, isn't it?"

"Who are the others?" Harry asked.

"Those were my friends back in the good old days. To the right of me is Jason Grace, he was from England. And to the left is Nico di Angelo. He's from Italy."

"Do you know where they are?"

"I'm afraid not Harry. I've lost touch with them after the war ended. But I hope they led long and happy lives. They were some of the bravest men I ever had the chance of meeting." The grandfather turned to the next page where he was sitting next to a pretty nurse and bandages wrapped around his arm.

"Is that great-grandma?" Emma said. "Mama looks like her if mama was several years younger."

"You're very observant Emma. Yes, that woman in the photo is your grandma, and also my wife. You've never met her since you were born past her time but if she were here, I would think that you and she would've gotten along well."

Emma giggled in response. "Then I would be happy to meet her."

"I wasn't a very cooperative patient you know. I would often plead with her to let me go out into battle but she would always scold me for doing so. Afterwards, I found out that she too lived in New York and after I was discharged, I went to her house to give her my thanks. And well… I suppose one thing led to another and the next thing I knew; she was pregnant with our first child." He suddenly snapped the book closed. "Well children, that's all for today."

"Tell us more grandpa," Henry whined. "I want to hear more!"

"Yeah," Emma chimed in. "Me too!"

The old man laughed heartily. "Maybe later kids. Your grandpa isn't as young as he used to be. How about we plant those flowers, eh? I think they'll look pretty on the window sill there. You know where the pots are right?"

They nodded. "Yes grandpa!" They raced outside and into the shed. He could hear them arguing about who was bringing what over from here and couldn't help but crack a smile.

Soon, the children came back toting gardening materials. In one hand they carried the pots and in the other, they were carrying a small bag of soil.

They got to work immediately and planted the poppies into three separate pots. They were a vibrant red and seemed even more beautiful in the afternoon sun. He placed them on the porch where everyone could see them.

Eventually, his grandchildren went back to their homes and his house was once again quiet.

He stared at the poppies for a long time. They were his favourite flowers, but not because they were pretty. When he was 30, his wife and he took a trip back to France and to the location of the battle that he fought in. The once war-torn landscape was covered with the red poppies as far as the eye can see.

He remembered well that the field used to be cover in bodies, bodies of the fallen and bodies of the wounded. Seeing the poppies reminded him that no matter how dire a situation a might be, there will be a new life a renewal if you wish to call it. Perhaps that's why nobody gave up. They were looking towards a brighter future far more pleasant, and hoping, _hoping, _that tomorrow will be better.

_Take up our quarrel with the foe;  
To you from failing hands we throw  
The torch; be yours to hold it high.  
If yea break faith with us who die  
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow  
In Flanders fields._


End file.
